Triptych for Topological Heart

it befalls us. an exchanged glance, reflective spasm.

Is it a fantastically unlaminated question set in flesh

or valentine that wears the air as its apparel?

If you cut a heart from parchment, is it still

a heart? A nontrivial knot, where turns of every gradient

may kiss and tell. Does the vessel have edges?

Or is it all connectedness, an embedding to be stretched

or bent. Imagine being simultaneously alive,

bound in both directions with a bow! Is it diachronic,

a phenomenon that changes over time? Without ardor

theory suffers. That’s why I’m stuck on you with wanton glue, per-

severing, styling something blobbish and macabre

into something pointed, neat. Love is a gift

that springs from an unlit spot. Resin and rue.

Even when I’m in the dark I’m in the dark with you.

say it quivers rather than contracts, fluttery with ruptions.

Doctors call it holiday heart. Valentine’s Day —

named for a saint whose head is venerated in Rome —

is also National Organ Donor Day, okay?

Give anatomical dark chocolates infused with true

invariance. With smoked salt pepper and beau-

jolais in a plain brown box embellished with praises

in a romance language in your hand. Please

none cosseted in plush like the stuff inside

a coffin. I’m just praying. Can you find a pulse

or dry needle trigger point? Just saying

this fudge has tears in it. Someone’s been sweating

over this. Listen, Mr. Stethoscope, I’m at the end

of my hope. Still, I’ll grow another

blossom for that blossom-crowned skull.

some give vinegar valentines. no pillow words.

Just floppy organ thistleburr. Froot Loops and craft

wire fashioned on a snarky jig: “To My Pocket Prince.”

“By Bitch Possessed.” Tough tits, isn’t it? Some call it a day

marked by commodified flowers, obligation chocolate.

Some live on clinical sprinkles, asking where’s the feast.

The carnelian pin with openwork components

that let you see its self-pleasuring mechanism, storm

hormones, and single pulsing vein. What even is it?

Here’s the thing. A gift cannot be cynical

unless the giver is. I will pay you to test this

for me. Its closets vast with steadfastness at best

at least for me surpass all other closets in the flesh.

I’m sending this from my memory foam head.

Valentines intensify the surface, heart the depths.

Source: Poetry (July/August 2014)